I know I should stop and help her up. Apologize for my behavior. But I feel too sick and flustered to do it. I hate the fact that this is how we met again, after all this time. I hate that five seconds in her company has reduced me to the infuriated teenager I used to be. And most of all, I hate how out of control I feel whenever I’m around her.
If I turn around now, who knows what I might say or do.
So instead, I keep stalking off down the sidewalk, clutching the soggy bag of sandwiches.
3
Mila
Un-fucking-believable. I’m heading to a job interview on my very first full day in Paris, and who do I bump into? Roman Turgenev.
Within five seconds he manages to prove that not only is he still the raging dick that he used to be, but somehow, he’s actually gotten worse.
How can it be possible that he’s already trying to ruin my life?
I’m supposed to meet with the editor of Clarion in eight minutes. How am I supposed to do that when I look like I just took a bath in a cappuccino mug?
Maybe there’s time to stop at a shop to grab a fresh shirt.
I check my watch.
Nope. I’ve only got seven minutes now to get over to Rue Ginoux. Argh! I could murder Roman. I swear to god, he did that on purpose. The way he sneered when he said, “Maybe you should watch where you’re going . . .”
I try to dust myself off as best I can, grabbing my purse off the sidewalk where I dropped it when Roman shoulder-checked me. As I bend over to pick it up, I can feel my skirt tearing even more. Nooooo! It’s splitting along the seam practically up to my hip. I’m showing more leg than Angelina Jolie at the Oscars.
Goddamnit, this is not the professional appearance I was hoping to convey.
Well, the only thing worse than looking tarty is being late. So I’ve got to book it.
I hurry along Quai Branly as fast as I can, limping like a wounded giraffe with the heel of my right shoe half-snapped off and wobbly. I’m making a spectacle of myself. I try to ignore the disapproving looks of passing Parisians.
I make it to the address with only a minute to spare.
Clarion is located on the fourth floor of an ornate Baroque-style building. As I push through the doors, the receptionist glances up at me with an alarmed expression.
“Can I . . . help you?” she says.
“I have an appointment with Monsieur Bisset at ten-thirty,” I gasp.
She’s staring at me, frozen in horror at the idea that I actually want to go upstairs looking like this. The receptionist has her hair pinned up in a sleek ballerina bun. She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater that looks like she stole it out of Bridget Bardot’s closet. She’s got elegantly manicured hands and flawless rose-colored lipstick on an otherwise bare face. The epitome of Parisian chic.
“I’ll ring him,” she says uncertainly.
She picks up her phone, speaks quietly into it for a moment, then puts it down again.
“He says to go on up,” she says in a tone of disbelief.
“Thanks,” I say.
I take the elevator up, trying not to look at myself in the mirrored walls. Seeing exactly how horrifying I look is not going to help my confidence.
As I step out of the elevator, I spot a professorial-looking man of about fifty coming toward me. He’s average height, mostly fit with just a hint of a belly beneath his dress shirt and sports coat. His thick, wavy hair is beginning to gray at the temples, and he wears wire-rimmed glasses perched on a beaky nose.
He raises his eyebrows at the sight of me, but he still smiles, holding out his hand to shake mine.
“Mila!” he says. “Charles Bisset. Ravi de vous rencontrer.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, giving him a good firm shake. I wince as he tries to let go of my hand, our fingers stuck together with the lingering remains of spilled latte. Bisset politely plucks a handkerchief from his pocket to clean his hand, as if this is a completely normal part of a handshake.
“Let’s go sit down so we can chat,” he says.
I follow him back to his office, which is huge and bright, with massive banks of windows on both sides. Apparently, the death of the newspaper has been overstated, because Clarion seems to be doing just fine.
He gestures for me to sit down.
“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Water. Coffee?”
I see his mouth twitch just a little on that second one. Trying to keep my tone as dignified as possible, I say, “No thank you. I’ve already had coffee.”
Bisset takes a seat across from me, resting his ankle casually across his opposite knee. He leans back in his chair, smiling at me.
“I read the portfolio pieces you sent me,” he says. “Very impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you translate them yourself?”
“I wrote them in French,” I tell him. “You couldn’t publish anything like that in Russia. We don’t exactly have the same level of journalistic freedom.”
“How did you become fluent?”
“I had a tutor. And I read a lot of French novels.”
He nods, tenting his fingers in front of him.
“So you plan to stay here for the foreseeable future?” he says.
“I hope to. If I can find work.”
I cross my legs, forgetting about the rip in my skirt. Bisset raises his eyebrows again at the rather excessive amount of thigh I’m flashing in his direction. Blushing, I put both feet flat on the floor. That doesn’t really help, because Bisset’s eyes simply move upward to the unintentional wet t-shirt contest I’m hosting.
“Can I ask . . . what happened?” he says.
“Oh,” I try to force a laugh, “I just ran into somebody on the way over.”
“I hope he’s paying for your dry-cleaning bill,” Bisset says.
“Not likely,” I shake my head. “Do you know Roman Turgenev?”
Bisset’s eyes brighten. He sits up a little straighter.
“Of course,” he says. “Do you know him?”
“Sort of,” I say. “We went to secondary school together. But we’re not exactly—“
“You went to Blackwood Academy?” Bisset cuts across me.
“Yeah.”
“The same years as Roman?”
I nod.
“That’s perfect,” Bisset says, clapping his hands together.
“Uh . . . why, exactly?” I ask him.
“Roman Turgenev is in the process of building a monstrosity of a hotel on Avenue de New York,” Bisset says. “It opens in a month.”
I nod, still not quite seeing the connection.
“I want you to do a profile on Roman and his project,” Bisset says.
Shit.
I try to think how to phrase this.
“I’m not sure he’d agree to that,” I say. “We’re not exactly close friends—”
“I think he will agree,” Bisset replies smoothly. “Our Arts and Culture reviews are highly influential. He’ll want a positive write-up when the hotel opens.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly.
I get the sense that there’s more to this assignment.
“Do you plan to give him . . . a positive write-up?” I ask.